An Unlikely Pair
by sherlollyallydoodle
Summary: After helping Sherlock fake his death, Molly is determined to help him catch Moriarty's gunmen. They go on the run together
1. Chapter 1

His face was blank, almost frozen. His body was still as well, so still it was impossible to tell if any breath inflated his chest. Steely gray-blue eyes remained open, staring fixedly but unfocused.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Molly shivered looking at him. He was dead but alive. Alive and sitting stock-still on her sofa.

Sometimes people went into shock after a death. Molly was a doctor and though all her particular patients were lacking joie de vivre, she remembered with clarity her psych rotations in medical school. Her education taught her the academic side of grief and loss and the varied reactions humans had to such occurrences . Personal experience, too, also made her familiar with the effects of death on survivors. The living, those left behind, often retreated into a world of despair inside their own heads. Though alive and in perfect health, Sherlock Holmes was to all intents and purposes legally deceased. And he seemed to be in shock over it. Actually, he might even be catatonic. Molly worried. Despite all her knowledge of death, she was unsure how to help him. He had not budged an inch nor spoken a word in the last 3 hours.

Initially he rambled on without stop in his usual fast paced speech when Molly had rescued him from his body bag at the lab earlier. After clearing his system of the anesthesia she had injected him with after his staged jump off of the roof of St. Bart's into a passing rubbish lorry (one she had driven herself, sweating the entire time in fear that her timing and speed would be off with his plunge) he had interrogated her with one million and one questions- "Is John safe? Does he suppose I'm dead? Did you rush my post-mortem? Have you supplied a body to the crematorium for my funeral?"- until he made himself absolutely sure that his plan had gone off without a hitch. After all that, it was a silent ride to her flat, and then 3 hours of silence on her sofa.

Molly fretted over whether to say or do something for him. It was reassuring in an odd way. She always fretted about what to say or do around him. No change there then…

"Sh- Sherlock?" she tried tentatively. As usual he didn't seem to hear her. She raised her voice to a more forceful squeak, "Sherlock, are you OK?"

"Thinking…." he said, tonelessly. It was an automatic answer. Something cold like a voicemail greeting, a warning to shut up and let him think. Molly could tell that he still wasn't aware of her question, much less her presence. The answer was given by the 1% of his brain not ruminating on his current problem.

Molly nearly slunk away, cowed. Then she considered better.

"Thinking about what? Our next move?"

Sherlock immediately came back to the present. Like an eagle rotating its head on its shoulders to eye prey, he cocked his head toward her and blinked. "_Our _next move?"

Molly's mouth fell open a fraction. Under his intense gaze she quickly closed it and gulped. "Um…yeah. Just wondering what we do next?" she murmured.

Sherlock knitted his brow and gazed at her with a look that was otherwise unreadable. "Molly," he said firmly, "There is no '_our' _next move. There is no what _'we' _do next. I told you last night when I asked for your help what was to be done. I fake my death with your help and then hide out for some time in your flat until after my funeral. And then I leave. _Alone. _I have endangered you enough by involving you in this scheme of mine. I will not be responsible for endangering you further."

"But you can't!" Molly cried. His gaze turned instantly sharp and she could tell he was going to contradict her. "I can't let you," she said, quickly, "You can't be alone. The gunmen after John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are still out there. You won't rest until you ensnare them. You've given up your whole life for your friends, Sherlock, and I- I-" Molly began to stammer. She paused a moment and swallowed hard while shutting her eyes to clam herself. Then, resolutely, "I intend to help you get it back."

Her voice gathered a firmness that made Sherlock consider her before speaking. In all of an instant she went from being jumpy to being steadfastly brave. He had only seen her firm once before, only 24hours before, when she had asked without hesitation what he needed of her.

"And how do you suppose to help now? If you have a plan worth executing I might consider you."

Molly stared at him dumbfounded. "I rather thought you already had a plan," she admitted meekly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged, irritably. "No. I was doing my best to concoct something before you interrupted me. If you can come up with something reasonably logical, Molly, I'll have you along. Otherwise, I think for myself and only for myself. I cannot and will not be responsible for more people than myself. You see what danger my friends get into by there acquaintance with me."

Molly twisted her hands. It was on her. One shot to prove she could be off use to him otherwise her role in all of this was over…

"You need money," she tried, hesitating, "You had only hours to plan your death so I'm sure you couldn't empty your bank accounts. That would have been suspicious, too, emptying your accounts before dying…."

"It would have reeked of insurance fraud, and possibly would have tipped off Moriarty," Sherlock conceded. "Go on."

"…And you can't empty your accounts now because your dead, obviously," Molly continued, "So you do need money. I have money."

"Indeed," commented Sherlock without emotion.

"You can't get out of the country by air, no passport when you are legally dead…"

Sherlock inclined his head. "True. Any ideas how to remedy that?"

Molly thought to herself. If he couldn't go through customs by air then that left two options…

"A train," she proposed, "Go by Chunnel. Or by boat. To France perhaps?"

"I like France," Sherlock commented, gently. "But what to do when there?"

He was visibly relaxed now, reclined back into the cushions of the sofa. Molly blushed when she realized he was playing a game with her. One he obviously thought she would lose but was so far reasoning out intelligently. It gave her some courage. She continued on less shakily.

"You've no identification, so you can't get a proper hotel. That leaves hostels. I'm sure you'd have no qualms about spending my money for a private room in a hostel but my funds can only go so far if I leave my job at the lab to run off with you. It'd be better if we bunked in a shared dorm. Those uni kids leave their stuff unattended most of the time. Knowing you, you could pilfer spare change quite easily and it'd be difficult to prove you a thief."

Sherlock outright laughed at that. "Dear, Molly! You are quite criminal to suggest such a thing. Although to be fair, if anyone were to steal from us I'm sure I could deduced the thief out of a whole room of bunk beds."

Molly smiled sheepishly. "And," she spoke up, grabbing his attention once again, "Shady people sometimes stay in hostels. We could find someone to deal you a false new passport."

Sherlock considered her a moment further. "Well," he said at last, "After this mornings events I suppose you've proved and earned your worth. We leave as soon as my funeral is held."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock watched his funeral from afar. From what he could see Molly was doing a good job playing a woman grieving from unrequited love. He wondered at her ability to cry as convincingly as she seemed to be with her false tears streaming down her face, pretending to sniffle into her tissue. She was brilliant little actress it seemed…she looked twice as stricken as Mrs. Hudson, and Mrs. Hudson was shaking with her head resting on Sherlock's best friend's shoulder.

John, ever the soldier, was stoic. The only hint his body gave to his immense distress was the tightness with which he held Mrs. Hudson's hand. Even with the distance between him, Sherlock could see John's bottom lip was a mite too straight to be natural. It only bellied the tenseness he was using to keep his jaw from wobbling. Even Lestrade standing next to John looked pained, though Sherlock supposed it stemmed more from the grief of losing a fallen colleague rather than a close friend.

Guilt welled up inside Sherlock. He was the cause of all this suffering. There were not many at this funeral; all of his family was absent, including his own brother, but the few who were there were the faithful. They were the one's who did not believe in Moriarty's constructed lie. They knew Sherlock to be what he was. And yet, here he stood only yards off while they supposed him dead and buried. In the end, he was forced to be a fake. In some ways Moriarty had won after all, though not in the way the maniac had planned.

Sometime later, after John had finally left Sherlock's grave, Sherlock turned away from the cemetery to drive back to Molly's flat. They would be leaving in the morning, fleeing London and setting off for the continent. He needed to be away from his country to allow a grace period in which Moriarty's men could become comfortable in their skins. Comfortable people often made mistakes and right now whoever the 2nd in command was would likely be on high alert to keep control of his new inherited criminal empire. As dearly as Sherlock would love to strike them now, he knew it would be foolish to do so. In the meantime he would be forced to build a new life- a life with Molly as his only friend. It was…..

Sherlock wasn't sure what it was.

It was slightly irritating. That much he realized. But why he found the idea of living with Molly irritating, he wasn't sure of. Part of him was concerned for her safety. People with more than a passing acquaintance with him seemed to be targets. The only reason Molly had not been aimed at by Moriarty was the man's belief that Molly was nuisance to Sherlock. And rightly so. It was downright devilish what the evil genius had done, pretending to be a love interest to the poor girl to see if Sherlock cared to look out for her intreats or cared to squash her dreams. Sherlock was very good at the latter. But what Moriarty had failed to see, what everybody who had ever witnessed Sherlock's interactions with Molly had failed to see- even what Molly herself had failed to see- was that Sherlock's brusque manner with her was not given out of lack regard for her feelings, but rather _because of_ her feelings.

The blasted dear sweet girl cared the world for him. Why, after doing his best to discourage her, she still would care for him was beyond his deductive capabilities. But care she did. And now that he was going on the run with her for an indefinite amount of time, he was going to have to reconcile himself with that fact. He only wondered if she had ulterior motives to use the situation to her advantage to try to make some claim on him. It was worrisome to say the least.

Back at her flat, he found Molly waiting for him. She was packing up some remaining toiletries. Surprisingly, she still had traces of tears along her cheeks. His eyes scanned the room. There was nothing remiss that she should be crying over. She didn't have any family to leave behind, they were all dead. Perhaps leaving behind her cat Toby had brought the tears on? But no, he reasoned further, Molly had given the beast to a friend days ago and had ceased crying over it after a few hours. She was not hurt nor injured. And she certainly would not be crying over leaving her job cutting up deceased people. She liked her work, was even passionate about it, but it was nothing to be emotional about.

"Your still crying," Sherlock stated, bemused.

Molly looked up at him in surprise. His eyes were narrowed as though he were trying to perceive what she was on about. "Of course I am," she sniffed, "I'm just back from a funeral."

"Yes, _MY _funeral. And I'm not dead."

Molly shook her head at his ignorance. "Sherlock," she said, "I don't cry for the dead. I cry for the living."

"You're crying because I'm still alive," he stated, clearly not following her train of reason.

"No," she said somewhat exasperatedly, "I'm not crying because you're alive or because you're dead. I'm not crying over you at all. I'm crying for Mrs. Hudson, and Inspector Lestrade, and mostly for John. They're all so sad, Sherlock. All of them. Especially John."

"Oh."

Sherlock began to look uncomfortable. He rubbed the back of his neck in a sheepish sort of way, guilty that he had supposed Molly, honest-to-a-fault Molly, to be faking her tears at the funeral earlier, and also because he was reminded that his friends were hurting so badly.

"I saw John alone at the crematorium," Molly continued, wiping her eyes as she folded more clothes for her bag, "He was sitting alone holding 'your' ashes. We talked a bit. He's even more sad over your death than the friends he lost in Afghanistan, he said. He's so…so lost, Sherlock. Your were his best friend. This is not fair to him."

Sherlock did not say anything but stared resolutely to the floor.

"It's…..for the best," he finally said after some time. When he didn't hear Molly respond, he glanced up out of curiosity.

Molly was gazing at him and she continued to for a long while. Sherlock was not one to be intimidated but he found himself shifting uneasily under her inscrutable stare. At last, after an eon of silence, she said, "Don't do that."

He blinked. "Do what?"

"That," she said, pointing at his face, "Don't do that because I'm not John."

Bewildered, Sherlock said, "What?"

"That's what you did to John. You pretend not to be sad when you are. I caught you doing that to him before and now your trying to hide being sad around me. Just…don't"

"Molly-," he began, annoyed.

But Molly shook her head. "No," she said, and he could see that speaking her mind, especially to him, was still a trial and an effort for her. The shakiness in her voice betrayed as much. "Not to me. I'm not doing this to get closer to you. You don't want me like that, I know. But if I'm around, you don't need to hide your feelings from me. Your sad about losing your best friend even if you don't want to admit it. If I'm coming along with you, I want honesty from you."

That disgruntled Sherlock a bit. "You might question your decision to make demands of me," he said, somewhat icily, "You're not necessary to this part of the plan. Yes, you have money and admittedly I have a sore need for it at present, but I'll manage on my own. I don't need you, Molly."

"Ok, then," she answered. "I never questioned your abilities, Sherlock. I know you don't need or want me, and that's not why I offered or asked to come with you."

"Why the devil did you then?" he snapped.

"I like you," she answered simply, not daring to look at him. "Why I like you, well sometimes I wonder at myself for that, but I do, and that's why I helped you this far and want to still." Molly lifted her face to him, "But I also like John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. They are my friends, too, and I'm just as guilty of depriving them of happiness as you are, making them all think your dead. And that's mostly why I'm helping you. I know your capable of fixing this without me, I don't pretend to be important. You don't need my help, Sherlock, but with me you can stop this charade a lot quicker than you can on your own. And the quicker this ends, the sooner everyone can be happy again. So, like I said before. You can have me."

It was amazing, Sherlock mused, how quickly Molly could go from being extremely staunch to being extremely embarrassed. She said everything with such intent, and he knew she meant every word, but she was ever shy no matter what. Even now, after her quiet outburst she was chewing on her bottom lip in anticipation of his response.

Sherlock sighed. Looking at the clock on her wall, he said, "Hurry up then. I booked an earlier train. We need to leave in hour."

At that, Molly nodded and began to finish packing her bag.


End file.
